


A Series of Gifts

by dip



Category: FAHC - Fandom, Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Fake AH Crew, First Kiss, First Time, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Possessive Behavior
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-19
Updated: 2017-02-19
Packaged: 2018-09-25 11:45:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9818969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dip/pseuds/dip
Summary: Geoff Ramsey begins the arduous process of courting one Michael Jones, unbeknownst to the Lad himself, in the only way he knows how: by showering the object of his affections in grandiose gifts befitting a king. Or, at least, a kingpin's crush.





	1. Initial Occurrences

**Author's Note:**

> Forgive me Father, for this is my first time writing fanfic in like five years.

Michael Jones has stood at Geoff’s side since the very beginning. He was one of the first to join the Fake AH Crew’s ranks and his addition made it a force to be reckoned with; an explosive powerhouse of a gang with dangerous ideals (or lack thereof) and violent vigor. Geoff supposes there have been some signs along the way - flickers of affection growing more and more steady and something too light, too fragile in its fluttering, beating at the inner walls of his stomach like the paper-thin wings of several dozen butterflies.

It hasn’t been one-sided, though neither party has acknowledged the often joked about elephant in the room. At least not in a serious context - everyone in the Crew has cracked a joke at one time or another about Michael and Geoff being secret butt buddies and it’s always funny but Michael seems to catch Geoff time and time again, looking at him slightly differently for a while after these jokes are made. There’s always something slightly darker in his oft-lidded eyes; he looks away a little faster and flushes a little pinker.

None of that is really on their minds right now, though. Right now the Fakes are occupied by thoughts of booze, buddies, and boisterousness, as they celebrate in the wake of yet another successful heist. There’s Jeremy, Jack, and Ryan (with his trademark Diet Coke as opposed to the norm of cheap beer and various mixed drinks), who sit around the dining room table playing some variation of Uno, giggling like idiots whenever one of them cracks a low, wry joke about the state of the others - usually Michael and Gavin, who have spent the last fifteen minutes drunkenly wrestling on the sofa with their half-emptied glasses set aside. The Jersey lad declares himself the winner for the fourth time in a row and Gavin hops up to stumble away, scowling (though only halfheartedly) before snickering and wobbling off to mess around with the calmer bunch’s game.

This leaves an opening for Geoff, who plops down onto the sofa beside Michael and drapes an arm behind him along the back of the couch, leaning into his boy’s side and sighing heartily, “Michael, let me tell you something.”

“Here we go,” Michael huffs, more slurred laughter than proper English. He leans back, shoulders pressed against the inner crook of Geoff’s elbow, and lifts his beer up to the Gent in a gesture that says in not so many words to go right on ahead. The lip of the bottle finds its way to Michael’s mouth, and he takes a long drink as Geoff launches a flurry of whiskey-scented word-vomit.

“I started this gang. I built this gang up from the dirt, I- I’m the _founder_ of the Fake AH Crew. It’s me.”

Michael nods, agreeable in his tipsy stupor, and Geoff continues.

“Jack helped, and you helped a lot too, you little- helping guy, helpful dude, you- but I did most of the work and I did just- so much for this goddamn Crew. I’m a good boss right?”

Michael nods again, and so Geoff goes on.

“Gavin keeps whining to Jack that I get too much from our heists compared to everyone else but like- it costs _money_ to run this godforsaken crew, I have paychecks to give out and bills to pay for and he mashes his stupid shitty car into every lamppost in Los Santos at three-feet intervals and- it’s not my fault, damn it. He’s a shithead.”

Michael stops drinking about now, because his glass is officially empty - completely clear of beer, down to the last drop. He sets the emptied cup on the side table and rests his head back on Geoff’s arm, because the room is spinning slightly and that was definitely far from his first drink of the night.

“Gavin’s a baby,” Michael slurs simply, and Geoff nods furiously, shifting the smallest bit closer and grinning and doing the best he can not to jostle Michael’s head but still moving it just the smallest bit because hey, he’s only human.

“Exactly! Exactly. Michael, you get me, that’s goddamn- it’s exactly right. Yes. But then I still have to deal with Jack whining to _me_ about Gavin whining to _him_ and-"

Michael hiccups, just the once, and Geoff goes quiet very suddenly, like the sound offended him. Really he's just looking at Michael though, because Michael’s eyes have drifted closed and he’s so loose and relaxed where he sits beside Geoff, and maybe the Gent is having a hard time keeping his head on straight (pun, of course, fully intended) because in the low light of the penthouse suite they all share Michael looks somehow ethereal; beautiful. His short auburn curls reflect and shine dully in the light, and his cheeks are thinner than they used to be - his entire face is more mature looking, not nearly gaunt but still significantly less round without his baby fat and wiry glasses.

Geoff’s not sure which iteration of Michael Jones he prefers. Geoff thinks, for a moment, he rather enjoys the sight of them all.

The Gent sways slightly and leans back from the Lad who’s been all but scooped up under his arm, pulling away entirely and mumbling something about another drink. This is… significant. This requires thought that Geoff isn’t currently capable of. This is just about all Geoff’s hazy, half-drunk mind can take this late into the night, and after this many drinks.

Geoff is the first to bed that night and the last to rise the next morning. Gavin takes back up his place on the couch, fresh bev in hand, and Michael, drunk as he is, doesn’t do much deep thinking about his boss’ brief bout of near-intoxicating proximity until the following morning, when his head thumps with the aches and pains of a well-deserved hangover and coffee burns hot and bitter on his tongue. They don’t discuss it - Michael all but forgets about it - but the memory plants itself firmly in the back of Geoff’s mind as A Thing, something worth consideration. 

Something to be dealt with, perhaps.


	2. The Annis RE-7B

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geoff Ramsey begins the arduous process of courting one Michael Jones, unbeknownst to the Lad himself, in the only way he knows how: by showering the object of his affections in grandiose gifts befitting a king. Or, at least, a kingpin's crush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback and comments make my dick rock hard. Just sayin'.

Michael doesn't expect it for a second.

The car is luxurious - the textbook definition of an opulent gift. It's a sleek model, with an obnoxiously bright yellow paint job that screams for attention. The rims are solid gold, because too much is never too much, and the interior is the kind of smooth, supple leather that would make a hardcore motorcyclist light his jacket on fire in a fit of jealous rage. 

Michael doesn't expect it for a second, but he falls in love with it immediately.

"You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You are."

"I'm _not_."

"Then you must be out of your mind!" Michael crows, surging forward to circle the car with bright eyes and a wide, lopsided smile, like he's thrilled but he still can't believe what he's seeing. He reaches out and brushes his fingertips along the arching hood of the car as he passes around it, and then grabs at the handle of the driver's side door and yanks it open, all but flinging himself inside with a delighted little laugh.

"Y'know, that's a distinct possibility," Geoff mutters under his breath. Michael doesn't hear.

"How much did this cost?" Michael asks from within the vehicle, grazing his palms along the outside of the steering wheel before twisting around in his seat to look in the back.

"Money is no object for me, Michael Jones," Geoff calls out in reply, wriggling just free of answering the question and instead making his way over to the car's still-open door. He stands on the outside of it, resting his hands on the edge of the window and peering in as Michael faces forwards again. They make eye contact and something catches in Geoff's chest because he knows he's seen Michael smile before, a million trillion times, but he's never taken the time to admire the Jersey boy's singular dimple; the way it settles itself in his cheek like it belongs there, the way it accents his crooked grin and helps to push the joy right up into the corners of his eyes.

"Geoff? _Geoff_."

Geoff snaps back down to Earth, blinking before replying a bit stupidly, "What?"

"The keys? I asked you where the keys were."

"Oh, duh. Right. Here," Geoff digs into the pocket of his lightly rumpled suit, smoothing out the front fruitlessly with the flat of his palm before giving up and holding out the keys to Michael. He pinches the key ring between his thumb and pointer finger, and from it dangles a tiny plush of the poop emoji, and the key itself.

"Classy," Michael notes before snatching the key ring out of Geoff's grasp and exhaling slowly. He pushes the key into the ignition, slow and suspenseful as all hell, and turns the engine over. It kicks to life with a low rumbling purr and Michael all but shudders at the sound, resting his cheek on the steering wheel and humming, "Holy fuck Geoff, I might have to marry you for this."

"Woah there tiger, I'm not that easy. Dinner first, at least," Geoff retorts, leaning on the open car door again before cracking a sly smile and adding, "Wanna take it for a spin?"

Michael's eyes dart up to Geoff's face, wide and hopeful; he's like a child being offered his favorite treat, "For real? Right now?"

"No, I was going to make you wait 'till tomorrow to drive it. Maybe next week. Yeah, right now, dumbass," Geoff laughs, shaking his head before pushing the car door closed and making his way around to the other side. He tugs open the passenger side door and slides into the seat which awaits him behind it, shutting the door in his wake and tugging on his seat belt. He pauses after hearing that familiar click that denotes the locking-in of the belt and looks over at Michael, who's just kind of... staring at him. "Some time today would be nice."

Michael blinks once, twice, three times, and then suddenly he's grinning something wicked and looking ahead, pushing the car into gear and feeding it some gas to get them rolling out of the garage and down the street.

They're out for hours, sometimes hollering along to the radio at full volume; sometimes talking for long stretches of time about nothing and everything all at once; sometimes just enjoying the rumble of the car's engine and each other's company; and _always_ hurtling along at breakneck speeds, maneuvering through the traffic and shaking off a cop or two on more than one occasion.

By the time Michael is putting the car back in the garage and killing the engine, night's fallen. Geoff says something about needing a drink, wobbling a bit as he stands on less-than-confident legs, and Michael laughs, and they head in together, walking side-by-side. Geoff considers the day an absolute success - a brilliant first date. Michael might secretly be inclined to agree.


End file.
